


nine-tenths of the law

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: 5 Times, Bad Flirting, Developing Relationship, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: "Mine," Croc says.(Or: four times Croc called GQ his where other people could hear him, plus one time it was just for GQ.)





	nine-tenths of the law

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hecate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/gifts).

> ♥

**one.**

GQ keeps his mouth shut until the mission's actually wrapped—until they're back in the equipment room, stripping off and gearing down before their debriefing.

Hell, he'd have waited until after the debriefing, looked for Croc on his own time, because it's not like Croc's got any gear he needs to get stowed away, except Croc followed him in here anyhow.

(Croc's always followed him in here, and GQ hadn't thought twice about it until today.)

He tries to keep it casual, at least at first. Just turns a little, looks over his shoulder at Croc, and of course Croc's already staring back, level, steady. "So what the hell is up with you, anyway?" GQ says.

Croc tilts his head, just a fraction.

"Earlier, back there. When the team split up—" and he doesn't even have to finish saying it, Croc's already baring his teeth. "That!" GQ says, jabbing a finger at him. "Why are you doing that? It would've been fine, man, you did not need to pitch a fit about—about babysitting me, for fuck's sake—"

"I look like a babysitter to you?" Croc says, real flat.

"That's my point, dude. You aren't—of course you fucking aren't. And if Squad B had needed you—"

"Didn't," Croc says.

GQ throws up his hands. "Yeah, but what if they had? Seriously, you can't blow a gasket every time we get split up."

Croc looks at him, and doesn't say anything.

"You know what I mean," GQ insists.

Because yeah, all right, it hadn't been a _fit_. It wasn't like Croc had thrown a tantrum, screamed and wailed and kicked his feet. He'd just—he'd just gone all implacable about it, staring in that way he's got, silent warning that he was about to fuck you up and he wouldn't look back after. Like if the orders didn't change, he didn't give a shit. Like he'd have listened to everybody and their mother telling him he was with Squad B, and then he'd have turned around and gone with GQ anyway.

"You can't _do_ that, all right?" GQ says, a little quieter, clenching his hand into a fist and bumping Croc chidingly in the chest with it. "You—they've still got a goddamn bomb in your head, man. You can't just not do what they tell you, not even if it means you've got to let me go do my fucking job without you looking over my shoulder—"

"Mine," Croc says.

GQ stops talking so fast he almost bites his tongue—is stuck standing there staring, face hot, and is suddenly way too aware that there's nearly a dozen other people in this room right now, and that the low background hum of idle chatter has given way to conspicuous silence.

"Excuse me?"

"You," Croc says, like GQ's the one being weird and stupid and stubborn here.

"What, you—just because you saved me in Midway, you own my ass? Is that it? And now you can't leave me alone for ten minutes—"

Croc doesn't seem bothered by the way GQ's voice has gotten sharp—the way there are eyes on them now for real, the polite pretense that everybody in the equipment room has gone deaf at the same time starting to crumble. He just stands there. Looks GQ up and down, this real long lazy onceover; and then he meets GQ's eyes again and says, "Not just your ass."

"Jesus Christ," GQ says, rolling his eyes, disparaging. He scoffs and shakes his head and turns around, slams his equipment locker shut with a bang, and very definitely ignores the weird little jolt of heat that just shot up his spine, the way his skin's still prickling with the aftershocks, because—no. Just no.

**two.**

He's being dragged across stone.

He wonders, dimly, what exactly it says about him that he knows what that feels like so well he can recognize it—he can't even open his fucking eyes, but he's already sure it's not concrete, not cement or cold pavement or cracked tile.

He's injured. Maybe. He's pretty sure he's in pain, that something hurts somewhere; it just feels kind of far away from him, like there's a chance it's not really his after all. Might be drugged, too. Might just have gotten hit in the head real hard.

He's being dragged. And then it stops, and he's—he's moving, irregular. For a second he almost thinks maybe he's seizing or something, but no, it's somebody else moving him, hauling him up. He just can't quite feel his body, that's all. It's a little confusing.

He gets pressed up against something, and then there's a clinking sound, a rattle, at one side and the other.

Chains, he thinks, and then feels dazedly pleased with himself for figuring it out.

And then suddenly nobody's touching him anymore. He almost asks them to come back, except he's not sure he can move his mouth, and also it turns out not to matter—he was afraid he might fall over, but he doesn't. Because—

Because chains. Right. Okay.

That's about when the screaming starts.

GQ flinches a little, twists his head away from it; just because it's so fucking loud, because it's a harsh surprise compared to how cotton-balled and far away he'd been from everything a minute ago.

And then it's not just screaming. Gunfire, too. Gunfire, and clicks like radios, distant scratchy voices in level, professional tones.

Oh, hey. They came and got him.

Neat.

"Hey," he croaks, and does manage to pry one eye open after all. It takes him a second before he can actually bring anything into focus, a second to actually look at it, and even longer for his brain to dredge up useful feedback. Like a name. "Flag," he adds, and it's maybe a little slurred but, hey, he's not at his best here. Flag won't hold it against him.

"Hey, you moron," Flag says, gentle. "Just to be clear, this isn't about you. We happened to be in the area, figured we'd make a pit stop."

"Sure," GQ agrees.

Flag pats his face. "Okay, princess, just hang on," he says, and then glances up at—oh, at where GQ's arms are, up there, with the shackles. Holds a radio to his mouth and clicks the button, telling somebody somewhere that they're going to need some bolt-cutters in here unless they can find the keys on one of these fucks. It's nice, soothing, Flag talking in that familiar brisk tone, and GQ hangs there and lets it wash over him.

Off in the distance somewhere, somebody shrieks extra loud, extra long. There's a sick wet sound, a growl.

And then suddenly somebody's right there next to Flag—elbowing him out of the way, all big and gray-green and pissed off.

"Hey," GQ says, pleased. "Hey, it's you."

Croc shows him teeth, which is a little harsh; but GQ doesn't have time to worry about whether Croc's mad at _him_ for something before Croc's got hands all over him—up his arms, to the chains, and then there's this weird awful shrieking sound.

Flag's radio clicks. "Okay, hold that thought, that's a no on the bolt-cutters," he says, real mildly. "It's handled."

"Me," Croc agrees, and now the chains are gone, but GQ's still not worried about falling over, because Croc's got him pinned at the chest. And then he leans in closer, teeth practically closing on GQ's ear. "Mine."

Flag clears his throat.

But GQ—GQ discovers distantly that he doesn't give a flying fuck. It's as soothing as the rhythm of Flag giving orders, as reassuring as gunfire and the clicks of radios. Better, even; because Flag showing up means GQ's probably going to be safe soon, but Croc showing up means he's safe already.

"Yeah," GQ slurs, and hooks an arm around Croc's neck, tips his head against Croc's shoulder. "Sure, big guy. Whatever you say."

**three.**

Ryerson is the first guy to actually bring it up with GQ.

He was on that squad with Flag, the one that just so happened to find GQ after his solo mission went sideways. So, yeah, he probably at least saw GQ getting his ass princess-carried out of there by the mutant crocodile man they all know and at least grudgingly have decided probably isn't going to eat them. Hell, for all GQ knows he was two feet behind Flag, and he heard the whole thing. GQ was pretty fucking out of it, he has no idea.

Point is, it's Ryerson who's the one to nudge GQ's shoulder, just a little too hard to not be trying to make a point out of it, and says, "So. You and the crocodile, huh?"

GQ casts him a quick sideways glance, casual and throwaway, like he doesn't get why Ryerson's asking even though he definitely fucking does.

But unless Flag radios right this second, there's no easy out here. They're waiting on a signal, crouched in the brush around this base and killing time until they hear the word go. He can't ignore Ryerson, can't pretend like he's got shit to do elsewhere.

"What's it to you?" he settles on, tone mild: invitation for Ryerson to drop it, without getting too confrontational about it.

Ryerson doesn't take the out. "I mean, hey, different strokes," he says instead, tone too sharp for the words, and his eyes are sharp to match. "Just never been on a team with a guy who's getting himself dicked down by some kind of animal, you know? What do you have to do—leash him up, before you get started?"

GQ looks at him.

Ryerson doesn't actually think they're fucking, he's pretty sure. Just talking trash, testing the water; looking for a weak spot. Wanting to see how embarrassed GQ gets, wanting to watch him stutter and stammer and try to explain how it's not like that—or—

Or, in a funny way, looking for some kind of reassurance. Big scary world out there, and scarier for guys like GQ and Ryerson than for most people. Maybe somewhere in there, maybe without even knowing it, Ryerson's hoping for somebody to look down on, hoping some things still work the same way they always have.

And GQ could roll with it. He could. He could tell Ryerson all about what a freak Croc is, what a fucking whackjob; that it's creepy, messed up, how obsessed with him that fucking lizard is, but hey, what the hell can he do about it? Both a gift and a curse, being pretty like he is—not that Ryerson would know, with a mug like that.

He could sell it, if he wanted to.

But he doesn't. Like hell is he throwing Croc under the bus to make some douchebag feel like they're on the same team, like GQ's going to have his back over—over some kind of animal.

Fuck that.

"Man," GQ says aloud, "if you're looking for tips or something, I'm not giving you any. Get your own crocodile dick, if you're so thirsty for some. I got dibs on this one, you can't have him."

Ryerson stares at him. "You fucking serious?"

GQ assembles his best poker face. "Dude, you _have_ to take it serious if you're going to ride a dick that big. Safety first."

"You're trying to tell me you actually let that goddamn thing—gah!"

Ryerson topples backwards out of his crouch, though he at least manages not to break cover. And GQ holds real still, because if he had to guess—

Croc doesn't even touch him. He's just leaning in over GQ's shoulder, curved around him, big hulking shadow risen up out of the marsh under all this brush.

And he looks past GQ's cheek at Ryerson, frozen there, pale and freaked-out and round-eyed, and bares his teeth.

Jesus, GQ thinks fondly. He's got to get a new schtick, he can't just keep pulling that one out every time he wants to make a guy shit his pants. Honestly. Show a little imagination.

"Mine," Croc rumbles, very pointedly.

Ryerson swallows, and holds up his hands. "Sure, yeah, okay. No problem. I get the picture, don't mess with your stuff."

_Your stuff_—GQ bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard. Jesus Christ, that is—that is not hot. That is not hot, and they're in the field, and he has got to get a grip before this thing really starts messing with his head.

**four.**

The thing in the dark—it's got him.

GQ doesn't even know how, but it's true. It's not touching him, it's—most of it is still lodged down in the crack it opened up, forcing its way free of where it's been trapped under stone. It's got arms, or something like them, parts of itself that stretch out, that grip tight; it crushed Adler a minute ago when he got too close, just—drained him out until he was empty and then crumpled him like a beer can.

It's not touching GQ. It's just—it's got him anyway, somehow. He can _feel_ it, deep in his head: cold and dark, seeping, welling up in his mind. Drowning out everything else, all his thoughts, _himself_—filling him up with cool quiet shadows, an endless dim space.

He's still got his gun. But he's not—he shouldn't be aiming it at Flag, jesus, fuck—

(do it)

—no, no no no, fuck _off_—

(_do it_)

His gun is trembling. He can't move it, can't drop it, can't get his goddamn finger off the goddamn trigger—but the thing in the dark is working so hard holding him there, it doesn't give a shit about his other arm. He brings it down, hard; smashes the gun down, so when he fires anyway it's into his own foot, not Flag.

He's got a split second to be glad about it before the pain hits. And then, abrupt, before he can even scream or fall down or anything, that's smothered, too—the silent lightless space in his head expands, eats him up like a void, and it eats the pain, too, all that hot sharp agony swallowed up. He can't feel a fucking thing.

He looks up. Or maybe it looks up, and it's just using him to do it. Because something's coming at it, and it doesn't know what—

It screams.

The noise, if it's a noise at all, feels like it goes right through him; it sounds like ice, like knives, like dying alone in the dark. It writhes, and twists—he turns—and, of course, it's Croc.

Croc pulled one of its limbs off, just grabbed the huge shadowy coil that came at him and—and tore through it, somehow. The thing is pissed at him. _GQ_ is pissed at him; has to get to him, has to kill him. Croc can't stop this. He can't be permitted to stop this.

(he can't stop _us_)

—no, fuck, what the fuck—

"Croc," GQ gasps out.

It doesn't like that; he feels his throat constrict, punishing, his whole body seizing up tight so he's trapped there, straining against nothing at all.

But Croc turns and looks, sees him there. The thing drags GQ forward one step, another. And Croc growls deep down in his throat, reaches out and grabs GQ by the nape of the neck.

To break it, maybe, GQ thinks, and closes his eyes. It's fine, it's—what the hell else is Croc supposed to do? GQ's trying to kill him, or at least he's going to start trying to again in a minute. Honestly, GQ'd rather Croc just took care of it neat and quick; it'll be better than if the thing in the dark does it, that's for sure, and—well. GQ probably physically _can't_ kill Croc. But if the thing in the dark figures out how to make it happen anyway, GQ would damn well prefer not to be there for it if he can help it.

Except Croc doesn't snap him in half. His hand tightens at the back of GQ's neck, and he grips one of GQ's wrists with the other one; and then he leans in real close, snarling, lips pulled back off his teeth, and he says, "_Mine_."

And, of all things, it actually fucking works.

The thing has to let go. GQ can feel it, it's—all the cold empty dark of it just seeps right back out of his head, and suddenly it's gone; he's all him again.

He gasps and coughs and jerks, logjam of half a dozen signals his brain had been frantically trying to send to the rest of him all going through at once. "What the fuck—"

Croc sniffs a little, squeezes the nape of GQ's neck kind of gently. "That's scary," he acknowledges, and then tilts his chin up. "I'm scarier."

And then he settles GQ carefully onto his own wobbly feet, and—oh, fuck, he shot himself, he shot himself in the fucking foot; Croc hangs onto him while he fumbles his way to the ground, half-supporting him until he's down, and then turns around and crouches, and jumps right into the giant-ass pit of darkness with a roar.

(The thing is, a lot of the shit they're running across these days, the deep dark magic hidden away in the corners of the world—it's got rules. Rules about blood, about death, about sex; rules about sacrifice. Rules about lives, and rules about ownership.

And down there in the dark under Midway, GQ _would_ have died. He'd meant to. He didn't know Croc would be there, didn't know anybody had his back, and he'd been ready to blow himself up anyway.

He—he threw himself away. He gave himself up, forfeited himself to whatever it was that was coming next.

And what had come next, down there, was Croc. Croc, who grabbed him with both hands and still hasn't let go, who's held onto him, who found him and took him and—and decided to keep him.

So, yeah, he kind of is Croc's. And maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that eldritch metaphysics agrees.)

**and one.**

GQ hadn't exactly meant to say it.

They'd just been fucking around. Mission was all wrapped up, and they were waiting for extraction. Waiting in the water, because why the fuck not, when it was right there—cold and clear and perfect, and GQ's always a little wired after a mission is over, slow to come down.

He doesn't even remember how they'd gotten on the subject: one conversation, feels like ages ago now; Ryerson and his stupid hangups, and then kind of sideways a step to how big Croc's dick actually was. And GQ had been busy thinking how goddamn lucky he was that the water _was_ cold.

So maybe that's how it slipped out. His brain was distracted, his mouth took advantage.

_Who's asking_, Croc had said.

It hadn't even really been a question. But somehow GQ had ended up listening to himself say, _I am_.

And now Croc's staring at him. Croc's staring at him and he hasn't said anything in like two minutes, and GQ would drown himself right now except Croc would probably just follow him down and haul him back up, the better to keep staring at him.

"Uh," he says.

Of all the ways he could possibly have fucked this up, jesus. They've got a thing going, with this—with how Croc is about GQ, that GQ's okay with it. That GQ likes it, even; except maybe he's got it all wrong. Maybe it really is like he's—like he's Croc's stuff, something Croc doesn't mind having around, doesn't want anybody else to touch. Maybe it isn't—

"Yeah?" Croc rumbles out, real quiet, after a second. "You really want to know?"

And then he's—he moves in the water, closer, crowding GQ back against the cliff face they climbed down to get in here.

GQ swallows. "I mean, I, uh. I wouldn't be opposed to a live demonstration."

"That so," Croc murmurs, and then he's right there, closing GQ in—pressing his face into the side of GQ's throat, breathing in deep. _Smelling_ him, GQ realizes dimly, and jesus, apparently that's also a thing GQ's into now.

Croc opens his mouth and licks a long cool stripe all the way up to his jaw, and GQ tips his head against the rock at his back and swears a blue streak. Fuck, he can't even decide what's hotter, Croc's weird ripply tongue or the hint of teeth catching him here and there, brief prickling bursts of sparks under his skin.

And then Croc grips the side of GQ's head, big thick fingers sliding into his hair, and tilts it. Not up or toward him, but away—so he can put his mouth right up against GQ's ear, and say, "_Mine_."

GQ licks his lips, heart pounding; god, he wants to laugh. He wants to laugh, he wants to whoop, he wants to set off fucking fireworks.

"Yeah," he says instead, hoarse, agreeing. "Yeah," and he tugs out of Croc's grip and hooks his arm around Croc's shoulders, and drags him in to kiss him.


End file.
